


Please

by misfitmonarchy



Series: misfitmonarchy's BTHB Card (2019) [1]
Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: BTHB, Bad Friend Scott McCall (Teen Wolf), Bad Things Happen Bingo, Derek Hale Saves The Day, Drug Use, Escape, Gen, Good Peter, Imprisonment, Kidnapping, Magic, Morally Grey Alan Deaton, Pre-Slash, Running Away, Spark Stiles Stilinski, bad things happen to stiles
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-28
Updated: 2019-07-29
Packaged: 2020-07-24 18:22:51
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 2
Words: 2,664
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20018971
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/misfitmonarchy/pseuds/misfitmonarchy
Summary: Stiles is bitten and Scott tries to protect him, in probably the worst way possible.(please read tags for triggers)Bad Things Happen Bingo: "this is for your own good" and "tampering with food/drink"





	1. I'm Begging You

**Author's Note:**

> Dedicated to wildamongwolves on tumblr! 
> 
> wildamongwolves said: Bad things happen bingo: this is for your own good, bounty on their head, tampering with food/drink. I got it down to three! :P
> 
> Sorry I couldn't fit the bounty on their head square with this one! But I did get the other two! 
> 
> The following contains: kidnapping, coarse language and non-consensual drug intake. Reader's discretion is advised.

“Scott Please!”

“I’m sorry,” Scott says as he pushes Stiles’s hands away “but this is for your own good.” 

“No. No please!” Stiles begged, the panic grips him tight and sharp, twisting his guts until he feels like puking. Like he can’t breathe because Scott is going to lock him in _there._

“Scott--”

“You know it’s true, Lydia. Deaton said”

“Deaton’s wrong! _Please!”_ His voice grates in disparity and Scott cringes away. Stiles throws him at Scott again, who is blocking the doorway of the padded cell. 

“Stiles.” His tone is soft, but his face is hard. Lydia has retreated, eyes wide. Stiles can feel eyes burning hot, and tears falling from there. There was no way out of the white room except where Scott stood, eyes Alpha red and holding him still. “Stiles,” Scott repeats, as if that’s supposed to mean something “I’m doing this for your own good. You won’t be able to hurt anyone in here until we can figure out how to… handle this. For now this is the safest place for you.”

He realizes with a horrible pit in his stomach that Scott won’t be changing his mind. Stiles looks past him to Lydia, and then farther back, to the hall that leads outwards to the basement of the vet clinic. 

“I don’t want this! Please!” He shouts, even as Scot pushes him back into the room again. At the top of the hall he can hear the doors open and footsteps drawing closer. His throat feels swollen and full with his heart that’s jumped there in the milliseconds since Deaton’s come into sight behind Lydia. He passes her, hand in his pocket and smelling… _wrong._

“Stiles, please. Just let us help you.” Lydia says quietly. 

“YOU DON’T KNOW HOW TO HELP ME!” He screams, “THIS ISN’T HELPING. LOCKING ME AWAY? I AM BEGGING YOU, LET ME OUT.” Stiles is hysterical. There’s tears and snot and Scott is holding him, his supernatural strength is suddenly not as impossible as before though. Deaton comes to the door way. 

“Stiles.” Lydia pleads softly. 

“LYDIA, PLEASE.” He chokes out, but she just turns and leaves. Deaton comes closer, smelling of chemicals and dirt. 

“Mr. Stilinski, I’m going to need you to calm down. We don’t know how the bite will take, and your current emotions could possibly throw the change into overdrive and make you feral.” Deaton’s voice is robotic. The room feels too small, and he feels like he’s about to burst out of his skin at this rate. Everything is too much. Too wrong, too tight, too hot--

_“Scotty, please._ ” He begs one last time before Deaton comes closer, a needle in his hand. He jerks away, searching for some recognition in his best friend's eyes that he doesn’t want this. 

“I’m sorry. Stiles, I’m so sorry.” Scott says but he’s closing the door of the padded room, and Stiles can hear it lock into place, caging him in the room with Dr. Deaton, and Scott. Stiles backs away until he hits the opposite wall. 

_“Please…”_

“I’m going to just give you something to calm your nerves, alright?”

“No. No, no please.” Stiles moves away again but Scott grabs him, holds out his arm for Deaton to insert the needle. Instinctively, he jerks away, sobbing and screaming desperately. “I want my dad! Call my fucking dad! Don’t FUCKING TOUCH ME!”

One moment Scott is holding him and the next he’s hitting the wall by the door. 

“Stiles. Calm down!” 

“Calm down? You want me to _calm down?_ While you’re trying to _imprison_ and _drug me?”_ He demands, trying to get to the door. 

“We are trying to help you.”

“Then let me the hell out!” He yells. Scott stands up again, and this time he doesn’t bother waiting for Stiles to see it coming. 

“NO!” Stiles screams but all too soon his arms are wrenched free from where he’d tucked them against himself and he feels the needle sink into his vein. 

Things after that are… foggy. He remembers feeling like he was going to throw up, remembers being curled in a fetal position. He remembers feeling the world spin in horrible nauseating swirls and then the door clicking shut. He remembers blackness, remembers dreaming about someone saving him from this hell. 

He dreams about a man in a surgical mask, with a gown and blue gloves prodding at his nude body, being unable to move or scream. He dreams of the man cutting him open and watching it heal. The dream ends with the surgical tools floating into the air before they all embedded themselves into the man who screamed horribly until he died. 

The world is a white cushioned surface for what only feels like a short time but all too long. They feed him, he’s sure, but only because when the food is served, his hands are bound and a red eyed man, with a crooked jaw gives him bread and water. Every time ends with him black out soon after. 

“Are you sure?”

“I’m sure.” 

“Then he’s okay?”

“He’s not a kanima, Scott.”

“And he’s not…”

“Not a wolf either. As far as I can tell, he’s always had a spark inside him. It seems that the bite affected him by lighting the spark inside him.”

“And that should…” 

Stiles groans. The voices make his head throb horribly. He opens his eyes to the blurry white room. He’s sprawled on the floor again, not uncommon after being fed. He knows its drugged, but he knows he has to eat or he’ll die. If he dies then he’ll never be able to escape this cell. 

“Stiles? Hey, buddy…” The man who brings the food is crouched over him. Nausea grabs his gut and makes him gag a little. 

For the first time in what feels like forever, his limbs don’t feel as heavy as lead. He has enough energy to cringe away from the werewolf. Those red eyes flash at him, and Stiles can’t stifle the whimper that slips from him. He rolls onto his back, away from the man. 

The ceiling is the same color white as the walls and floor, with padding and bright lights that hurt his eyes. Stiles closes his eyes tightly when it starts to swirl. 

“Stiles…” 

“It’s best to give him some time, Scott. It’s possible that he’s still drowsy from the medication from the last few days.” The doctor’s voice is sterile and flat like the floor Stiles laid on. Footsteps retreat quietly, and Stiles can’t remember when he stopped listening, but he falls back into the darkness one more time. 

He wakes up to shouting. To the aggressive sounds of fighting and crashing. It makes him sit up too fast, adrenaline firing through his brain like a fire alarm. A door slams open, and the sounds get louder, louder until someone is opening the door. 

“STILES.” The voice is familiar, but when he turns to look, it’s a man he doesn’t recognize. He’s tall, with black hair and green eyes. His face is covered in fuzz and he’s bleeding. His eyes flash yellow, and stiles jerks away. Glowing eyes had taught him nothing but resistance. 

_Bad. Danger._ He tells himself. He doesn’t want to go back to sleep. He wants out. 

Please just let him out.

“Stiles…?” The man is frozen at the door, all the sound and confidence has dropped out of him all at once. 

“Please.” Stiles croaks to the yellow eyed man. _“Please..”_ He wants to go home, he wants to see his dad. He wants to be safe… 

“It’s okay, I’m not… I’m here to help. It’s me, Derek, alright?” The man steps closer, and if he had the will to stand, Stiles would have backed away. As it were, his head is too heavy to hold up. 

He feels sick again, and sicker still when the man approaches slowly. As if nearing a dangerous animal. He wasn’t dangerous, he just wanted to go home.

“Please.” He begs the man again. He doesn’t want to go back to the blackness, he doesn’t want to have those dreams again. 

“I’ve got you, I promise. I won’t hurt you okay?” The man, Derek, says gently. His hands are warm, and it draws Stiles in like a moth to a flame. He’s been so cold this whole time, shivering in the thin blue gown he was in. 

It’s very hard not to jerk away when the ma-- Derek picks him up in a bridal carry. But instantly everything goes for sore and tired to numb and warm. It’s impossible to resist falling against the broad chest. 

“Please…” He begs one last final time, eyes heavy and dreading what would come. He’d fall asleep and wake again in the white room, alone and cold. Or maybe this was the dream. 

It had to be, as he was certain that in reality he would never leave that padded cell, even as the Derek man carried him up a white hallway, past a broken door and up metal stairs. 

“It’s alright, I’ve got you.” Derek promises, as they go outside. Stiles can feel the wind on his face, and his last thoughts are how strange this dream was. 

This time, when the darkness swallows him whole, Stiles doesn’t resist.


	2. Can't Believe My Eyes

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Stiles knows the food is tampered, but its survival now. He doesn't know if its the drugs that make him dream of escaping or if he might really be free.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> part 2! 
> 
> this one is more of a stream of consciousness type of thing, so i'm sorry if you find it a bit difficult to read. It's all through Stiles' POV but due to trauma it has skewed his reliability as a narrator, I will answer any questions in the comments though!
> 
> (For wildamongwolves' request: tampered food/drink as a separate chapter due to the rules of BTHB (one space is one story one story can't take two spaces))
> 
> The Following Contains: Non-con drug use, kidnapping/imprisonment and mental trauma
> 
> ENJOY!

The bread is slathered with peanut butter, but even through the tacky filling, Stiles knows the second the medication has been swallowed, because the crooked jaw man smiles in relief. He’s told that he’s been good, and he wishes it were true. 

But he knows it can’t be. Because if he were good why was he locked in this room? The white padded cell feels too small, even though he can’t touch any of the walls while laying in the middle of it.

“We’re going to figure this out. I promise. I’m going to fix this.” The man says. Stiles stares at where he’d thrown the food the first time they’d tried giving it to him. There was still peanut butter on the far corner of the ceiling. 

He raises his cuffed hands to the man when the food is swallowed and he’s opened his mouth for the man to check that he’s swallowed. 

“Deaton says that instead of a kanima, that you might ignite some spark thing. Basically you might have magic, but if we can’t find this gem thing that Lydia showed me… It could kill you. So I know you’re still mad but…” Stiles rubs his wrists as the cuffs click free. 

“I want my dad.” He tells the man. Stiles remembers how his dad has cuffs like those, but it starts to get fuzzy even as he tries to hold tight to the memory. 

“I’m sorry, Stiles. I really am.” The man’s eyes bleed red again, and his eyebrows scrunch. “It’s safest for you to be here.” 

“I want m… My…” His tongue betrays him, feeling heavy and thick. His eyes grow heavy and he can’t even remember laying back down on the floor again. He thinks he can hear his dad’s voice, but he can’t find him. He just wants his dad, please. 

Just let him out. 

“I’ll be back later.” The door closes behind retreating footsteps. The darkness swallows him again. It’s a vague blackness, it swirls around him that makes him want to be sick. Like car sickness. 

The dreams are worse than the blackness from the spiked food. 

Sometimes he remembers them enough to know they happened, to question his reality just enough, but… sometimes he can’t recall anything at all. Those are the ones that frighten him the most. 

Stile wakes up to a prodding, and opens his eyes to the crooked jaw man. He’s holding a bottle of water this time, and the sight of it makes Stiles’ mouth run dry. He hasn’t had water in…

He can’t remember how long he’s been here. The blackouts and the drugs and sameness of this white padded room makes it impossible to tell. Or maybe he has had water while he’s been here, and forgotten. It seems that he forgets a lot of things lately. 

There is a face that haunts his dreams, one that asks where Stiles is. The dream man has green eyes and black hair, and he can’t help but feel like he should know him, as if a missing limb were waving at him. 

Stiles can’t help but feel that the man in the dream is important, be he doesn’t know why or how. 

Later, when this man enters the padded cell, Stiles has no idea how many days its been. Weeks? A month? Maybe he was being dramatic, perhaps it was really only a few days. But when that man comes in, the world feels like someone has finally opened the windows and he can breathe again. The man’s name is Derek, he’s told. Stiles blacks out again and wakes this time in a gray room with black sheets and a huge window. 

There are voices traveling down the hall. He’s clothed in someone’s boxers and a white sweater. He’s not in the cell. He’s free! He’s--

He scrambles out of the bed, and his feet touch cold wood floor. It’s good, it reminds him that this is real. The room smells like pine and something else, a cologne maybe. Stiles opens the door and is follows the voices. One is deep, stern and confident. The other is tired, and all too goddamn familiar. Stiles nearly flies out the hall to the voice of home, of warmth. 

Of his dad. 

He can’t even make a sound, he just grasps the man tight, and his Dad’s arms hold him back, just as tight and aggressively. 

“Dad--” 

“Dad?” It’s in this moment that it all breaks. The moment shatters as he looks back up. What stares back is…  _ wrong. _ The…  _ thing _ smiles at him and Stiles backs away. The crooked jaw man is behind him, and the warm house with the cold floors shatters to a grey hallway. Concrete floor beneath his feet. The vision makes his head throb. 

“No…” He whimpers softly. 

“Stiles, your nose is bleeding… I was worried when I heard you snuck out. Let’s get you back to the basement.” The man’s words are gentle, pleading. But Stiles looks back to the entity he mistook for his father. A scarred man is there, eyes ice blue and glaring. 

“Scott, I’m not sure this is where he should be.” The scarred man’s face is a swirl of pink and white flesh. His short cropped brown hair whispers memories in Stiles’ ear. There is door over his shoulder, secured shut with a blazing red EXIT sign above it. 

“Deaton knows what he’s doing.” 

“Does he?” The stranger asks his captor. Stiles takes a miniscule step backwards.

“Do you?”

“I know more than some druid that--” Stiles takes his chance, and throws himself to the door. It bites into his skin and an alarm starts ringing as he shoves it open. The world outside the veterinary clinic is dark and wet and cold. The pavement bites into his bare feet and cold hurts so bad that he doesn’t dare stop moving. 

Shouting and snarling follows him for what seems like forever.

“STILES! COME BACK!” But he’s gone. He’s free. 

Finally, this time. Surely, he had to be. He could feel the pavement hurting his feet, could feel the rain beating on his skin as the gown plastered against him. 

Finally,  _ finally! _

A howl calls after him, but Stiles tries to focus on words that seem old and stale now. The crooked jaw man had told him something, something important. 

“Magic.” He tells himself. They think he has it, and maybe… just maybe he can use it. He puts every last ounce of belief and hope he could scrounge up and begging the world to just let him disappear.

He watches in wonder as his very skin begins to turn transparent. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Don't forget to COMMENT, LEAVE KUDOS and SHARE! 
> 
> i'm [misfitmonarchythings](https://misfitmonarchythings.tumblr.com/) on tumblr

**Author's Note:**

> Don't forget to COMMENT, LEAVE KUDOS and SHARE! 
> 
> i'm [misfitmonarchythings](https://misfitmonarchythings.tumblr.com/) on tumblr


End file.
